


Celestial Navigation

by phlox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff, HP: EWE, Humor, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 23:48:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phlox/pseuds/phlox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lost, without direction, unable to find your way home? Coming soon, a new Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes Ekeltronic to guide you on your journey! *Your mileage may vary.*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.
> 
>  **Beta Readers:** First, Dayang Lucilla, who months ago pulled the crumpled-up pages out of the trash and smoothed them lovingly, and Lorcalon/UniquePOV, who stepped in at the eleventh hour to give support and guidance on a tight deadline. I am sincerely indebted to them both!
> 
> Part of the Hawthorn & Vine Holiday Stories, 2011. This is the first story I ever started (a year ago), and I'd tried without success to finish it throughout the year and between fests. This proved, once and for all, that I'm rather worryingly only capable of writing on a deadline.

 

Draco was making excellent time.

 _Okay, turn right at Beedle Street. Take to the right side. Quickly past the apothecary; Scamander is on his way out of there, and you don’t want to get caught talking to him about the risk of Kneazle Fever during flu season. You’ll want to cross the street here – they haven’t picked up the trash yet at the Menagerie – and then it’s clear sailing ahead getting to the Leaky. Oh look, here’s Fortescue’s coming up on the right... just F.Y.I., but they do have those ginger-spiced muffins that you’re so fond of in for the holidays. You’re actually ahead of schedule, mate, so you’ve got time to stop-in for coffee. In fact, you should really consider getting caffeine in you before this appointment – the woman can really drag on and on... Oi! Malfoy! Do you really want to start a business relationship by being early to your first meeting?_

Draco stopped in his tracks. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to meeting this woman, although he was anxious to get things moving. But in his haste, he was running shamefully early, and his father would probably break out of Azkaban just to rap his knuckles soundly if he heard of it. (But then, Lucius was late to every visitors’ day and had kept the Wizengamot waiting at his trial; few were as dedicated to appearances as he.)

There in the middle of Diagon Alley with the wind whipping his hair and the Christmas shopping traffic buzzing about him, he came to a decision: there really was no rush. It was a chilly day, and he did indeed need some hot coffee to get through that meeting with the estate agent. Doubling-back, he took a small device out of his ear and pocketed it as he entered the cafe.

In Fortescue’s, a familiar figure was standing patiently in the queue, second from the front. Now, to say that Draco stopped short upon seeing her would imply that his reaction was one of surprise. As it was, he neither startled nor broke stride; he was growing rather used to the sudden appearance of Hermione Granger in the middle of his day. Unbuttoning his overcoat and pulling off his gloves, he wove through the other patrons to sidle up next to her in the queue (because he wasn’t above cutting when it suited him).

“I would say ‘fancy meeting you here,’ but I believe I used that on the second and fifth occasions.”

“Second and _fourth_ ,” corrected Granger, her concentration on the pastry case unwavering as she stared down a particularly intriguing pumpkin scone. “Your more recent jibe that ‘we must stop meeting like this’ was refreshing on the fifth but tired by the sixth.” She turned to him, one eyebrow delicately arched. “However, I must say that your spirited, ‘Hermione Granger, fancy that!’ on our last encounter has been my favorite of your greetings.”

Draco felt sure he was being mocked. Narrowing his eyes, he detected a slight smirk on her face as he turned away to the pastry case, deciding that the muffins which had enticed him here looked rather fetching and were far more deserving of his attention.

These chance meetings had started a couple of months before when he’d seen Granger quite out of the blue one morning at the Leaky Cauldron. They had begun by taking swipes at each other, just like old times. Actually, Draco had started in on her hair and style of dress, but she’d refused to bite until he’d ramped it up and aimed his barbs at house-elves and half-giants. However invigorating though the fight had been, it was inexplicably hollow. An hour later, they’d found themselves talking over fish and chips about new regulations passed by the Wizengamot and had parted with an awkward truce.

A few weeks following, he’d been minding his own business and heading toward a flat for lease in Hogsmeade when she’d nearly knocked him over barreling out of Gladrags in a huff. From there it had become slowly but surely natural to encounter each other in the course of their day; they’d get in a few digs at each other before inevitably settling in for tea or a meal and spirited conversation. In the absence of any other comparable stimulation, Draco rather treasured these experiences.

Granger made it to the counter, placed her order, received tea and one of the aforementioned scones, and turned to say, “I just finished that book on Acromantulas you recommended.”

Draco’s head whipped toward her, eyes wide. “You _finished_ it? We were just talking about it two days ago.”

“Yes, well...” She smiled, looking pleased and a little smug to have her freakishly voracious reading habits recognized.

Draco hadn’t exactly meant it as a compliment, as it wouldn’t do for her to think that he just handed those kinds of things out that easily (and besides, it _was_ freakish).

“It was fascinating,” she continued. “They’re such horribly misunderstood beasts.”

“Misunderstood?” His eyebrows shot heavenward and he forgot entirely about coffee and sweets as he followed her to a table in the back corner. “Granger, I think the wizarding world as a whole _correctly_ understands them to be murderous monsters.”

She gasped dramatically, putting her mug and plate down on the table and her bum down on her seat all with far more force than usual. Draco smirked down at his chair as he pulled it out and sat easily; Granger could go from zero to puffed-up-and-indignant in less than sixty seconds. It was like the world’s most amusing game of Exploding Snap, and she was just picking up steam.

“Would you consider it murder if someone came into your home and threatened your family? Defending yourself would be completely justified! It’s the same thing with the Acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest. If people would just stay out of their territory—”

“Their territory?” He reached over and nicked a piece of her scone, wielding it to make his point. “You’re talking about dozens of kilometers, filled to the brim with thousands of brothers and sisters and nieces and second-cousins and grand-nephews, of varying sizes, out _looking_ for a feast—”

“You’re exaggerating. Again.” She tossed her hair, the way she did when winding up to give a lecture. “We’re talking about when someone comes upon a nest—”

“No, we’re talking about what you call ‘poaching’ and the rest of the world calls—”

“It’s not! This is why I should have taken the job at Reg and Control. I have to deal with this attitude from just about everyone in MLE, and it’s pervasive in the wizarding world. It’s getting to the point where... ”

And so it went, on and on, and into the late afternoon. Like the seven times previous, Draco became so engrossed in the amusement he had entitled (as he liked to title things he didn’t want to otherwise examine), ‘Wrangling With Granger,’ that he lost track of time. He didn’t realize until Granger herself took her leave that he’d been there for two hours, had missed the appointment he’d made with the estate agent, and _still_ hadn’t had any coffee.

“Bugger!” His exclamation brought delighted giggles from a nearby group of boys and sharp looks from their mothers. Ignoring them all, he dug the device back out of his pocket and stuffed it in his ear as he pushed out the door. “Mayday, mayday, mayday! I’ve missed another appointment. Get me to Beamish’s office directly and maybe I can fix this.”

The device came to life with a yawn and the voice began in his ear.

 _If you insist on wanting to see that estate agent, I’m going to again warn you that there’s something definitely weird with that woman’s hair and the unnatural way it resists movement. Don’t you growl at me, mate, I just call ‘em as I see ‘em. But, if you’re sure that she’s the one to help you... you’re going to have to go back to the Leaky, since you’ll have to take the Floo into Hogsmeade and try and catch her at Madame Puddifoot’s. Yeah, I don’t like it any more than you do, man. Right. Cross the street, then take to the left here, because there’s some major shopping traffic in front of Blotts, since that poof Vanderwall’s new book is out just in time for Christmas, and the ladies are out in droves. Watch it – I think the one on the left there is that bird you picked up last month at the pub, so I’d avoid eye-contact if you shagged her and ‘forgot’ to call— Ahhh, a right cad, you are, Malfoy. Okay, if you cross here, you’ll be clear to the Leaky..._

 **~*:*~**

It had all begun with a very basic misunderstanding of Muggle technology.

Well, to be more precise, it had _begun_ with the soul-crushing experience of having his wand stripped from his person and being flung out of the wizarding world for a full two years; punishment for his part in the death of Dumbledore (tried as a minor) and his actions under the control of the Dark Lord as an unwilling Death Eater (acquitted on all felony counts). The creative minds of the Wizengamot had decided two years getting to know Muggles and their world – all while without the benefit of magic for a truly authentic experience – would be brilliant sensitivity training.

“What an exciting adventure for you!” his mother had said. “You can be anything you want. You can go anywhere you choose.”

Draco had resisted telling her that what he already _was_ was a wizard, and where he had already chosen to be was his home in the wizarding world. He refrained, because he had been sincerely worried about the woman; she had been in complete earnest.

“You’ll find yourself, Draco dearest.” She'd squeezed his hand and looked at him with an intent expression he’d never before seen anywhere near her patrician features. “You can decide just who you want to be, who you _are_ beyond your name.”

At that, he had wondered exactly who _she_ was and what she’d done with Narcissa Malfoy, proud pure-blood matriarch and derider of all things Muggle.

Now, Draco had known his mother had suffered from great worry through the two years of terror that had been the Dark Lord’s hold on her son. He'd known also that she’d gone to great lengths to ensure his safety during that time and in the Battle of Hogwarts. He'd been well aware that she was overwhelmed with relief at the bloody miracle that had him avoiding Azkaban, unlike his father. And he'd suspected that the time she seemed to be spending with her no-longer-long-lost sister, Andromeda, had probably been doing a bit of a number on her old beliefs and general world-view.

But that had been a bit much.

At his incredulous sneer, she'd gotten serious. “Draco, listen to me. Wouldn’t you like to put the past two years behind you?” At his sullen shrug, she'd continued, “The Malfoy family has always been powerful because they have excelled at sensing which way the wind was blowing. Whether we like it or not, that will be toward the half-bloods and the Muggle-borns from now on. You’ll have to change, Draco. In going to live with Muggles, you’ll learn how to survive in this new world. You’re the future of this family. This will give you a chance to build that future on something other than the mistakes of your forebears.”

Draco had been able to see her point, albeit reluctantly. He'd had no desire to apologize for the rest of his life, and couldn’t bear to live in shame, hiding himself from the very world the Malfoys had ruled for so long.

Still, he'd thought it must be quite easy for her, the lone Malfoy in possession of her freedom and her magic, to wax on and on about adventures and choices and all that rot. In his resentment, of course, he’d pointedly ignored the part involving that bit about saving Potter’s life in the final battle that kept his mother sitting pretty (his conscience had found it was best to stay silent when Draco was annoyed).

In the end, he'd swallowed his bitterness and had gone stoically out to meet his fate in the Muggle world, hoping against hope to make it through with at least some of his dignity intact.

In truth, it hadn’t been all that bad. The Auror assigned to his case had been a boring but pleasant man named Stevens who hadn’t seemed at all interested in rubbing Draco’s nose in his mistakes. He’d got Draco set up in a flat, tutored him quickly about the currency and the basics of electrical appliances, given him a map of Muggle London, and suggested he look for a job as a bicycle courier. After a few shell-shocked days of sitting staring at the walls of his puny but clean flat, that suggestion had been taken and accomplished easily enough.

It was the actual _being_ a courier that had been the challenging part. Learning to ride the bicycle hadn’t been too bad; he’d perfected his balance on a broom almost before he could walk. But that map of London had made Draco’s eyes cross. It wasn’t just the urban sprawl, or the duplicate street names, or the confusion between the ‘City of’ London versus ‘Greater’ London that had been the problem.

It was the massive hunks of metal that zipped at high speeds around and about and toward him and the traffic they arranged themselves into, like some precisely choreographed ballet. It was also the street closures that had got to him, and the film crews that blocked off big chunks of Central London with no thought to the impact on the rest of the populace. Even worse was the construction that had seemed to be everywhere, changing the look of the streets, the skyline, and important landmarks nearly daily.

Draco had not been able to get the hang of it. His every delivery had been fraught with misadventures, making fodder for his co-workers’ amusement. Had he needed to survive on his earnings alone and hadn’t blessedly had that small allowance from his trust fund, his stomach would have eaten itself as a result of the lost income.

It just so happens that business people get skittish when packages are days late. That skittishness turns to stinginess when it comes to tipping the courier.

It was after the ninth suggestion that Draco should get himself something called a ’G-P-S‘ that he'd gone to find out what it was all about. He’d figured it was (like everything that preoccupied Muggles) some kind of electronic device, so off he went to a shop called ’Curry’s.’ Thank Merlin he had gone alone. It was thus fortunate it was to a single salesperson only that he’d showed his ignorance of Muggle innovation.

Upon hearing the most basic explanation of it, Draco had assumed that a GPS not only gave directions, but got one around the aforementioned traffic, disturbances, and annoyances in the process. He’d thought it gave something akin to _advice_. Having lived his life with magic, it had seemed a reasonable possibility; having lived for months with Muggles, it had struck him as the kind of thing they would have created to get them more easily through life.

Because, as Draco had found out, Muggles weren’t so useless after all.

They were quite inventive and could be accepting of outsiders. They were creative, and their artistry could evoke tears and make the heart soar. They had alcohol more varied and more potent than the wizarding world; they zipped around in public transport that was quite a kick to ride; and they made quite simply the most delicious little yellow tube cakes with cream filling, called ’Twinkies,’ of all things. (Once he'd found them quite by accident one day at Sainsbury’s, Twinkies became Draco’s breakfast of choice whenever he could get his hands on them.)

And, speaking confidentially, Muggle birds were almost embarrassingly easy to chat up, especially when they’d gotten a look at him in his biking shorts.

But standing around staring at a big map of London had been attracting pickpockets. So he’d pretended he was joking to the salesman at Curry’s and bought the GPS. Having half of what he wanted from it was better than nothing, after all. His tips improved marginally thereafter, which had been good enough for him. Armed thus, Draco had soldiered on with his little cakes and the company of the occasional brunette, and he’d had some high times here and there before the two years were through.

He’d never forgotten about his original concept though, and when he’d returned to the wizarding world he’d thought long and hard about how it could be accomplished. More to the point, he’d pondered _who_ exactly could be the one to do it.

After weeks of deliberation had brought him again and again to the same name, Draco had finally had to admit that there wasn’t anyone else who matched the skill and innovation required for the job. He’d always kind of admired the prat and his identical wanker at school, anyway. In truth, he’d often been amused by their antics and their obvious genius at invention (quietly amused, and if anyone had ever questioned him about it he would have derided the very notion).

He’d known that one of the twins had died in The Battle of Hogwarts, but he couldn’t recall which; it was not as though he’d known either of them personally. All he could hope for was that the one who had beaten the stuffing out of him and broken his nose after that Quidditch game fifth year hadn’t been the one who’d lived.

As (Draco’s) luck had it, he was.

Their acrimonious first greeting at the shop in Diagon Alley had involved a few well-placed hexes from the red-headed bugger and far more flattery and groveling than Draco had planned. But before long, he’d found himself frustrated and desperate for Weasley to listen to him.

He’d yelled, “You give new meaning to ‘in one ear and out the other!’ you great pillock! Is all this just rattling about in that skull of yours with nowhere to exit?”

Surprisingly, George Weasley had an extraordinary sense of humor about his war injury (and a startlingly high-pitched laugh), so it had been precisely the thing to say to get him to lay down his arms. Beyond that, his business acumen had allowed him to let bygones be bygones and accept Draco’s challenge and partnership. Of course, the large investment by Malfoy Enterprises in Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes didn’t hurt.

Draco’s dream was that their creation would be ready and on the shelves by that year’s Christmas season, but it turned out that these things took time to perfect. So it had happened that a year and a half, one holiday season, one broken nose (Draco’s, again), and three prototypes later found them testing merely the latest version of the device. They both had high hopes for it to be the final version, and the testing was getting rigorous, but another shopping season was destined to pass without it on the shelves.

”I give you the ‘Wizarding Directive System,’” Weasley had said, when he'd presented the first prototype with a flourish. “’WDS’ for short.”

Draco had scrunched his nose in distaste. “’WDS?’ You couldn’t think of anything more... snappy? What about—”

“We’re not putting the word ‘Malfoy’ anywhere near this thing.”

He’d affected his best affronted look. “I wasn’t going to say anything about that. I was thinking along the lines of ha—”

“There will be no references to the Wimbourne Wasps.”

“...Well, then we could try—”

“No runic associations. People find them elitist.”

Draco had gaped at him. Weasley had just smiled and pulled from his ear the gadget that would quite clearly be supporting their grandchildren’s great-grandchildren into dotage.

It was _that_ good.

Draco had whistled lowly and taken the device gently from Weasley’s hand. Marveling at it, he'd held it up to the light. “Brilliant. But seriously, about the name. What I really want to evoke is some—”

“No.”

So, that’s how the Wizarding Directive System had gotten its name. And that about summed up Draco’s working relationship with George Weasley.

 **~*:*~**

To work the WDS, one needed only make a request, such as ‘get me to the church on time,’ or the like. The device would then, by hook or by crook, do precisely that. Draco had been absolutely inseparable from it, and its power only increased as its accuracy sharpened. It had performed well on its first outing; he’d used it to retrieve a family heirloom that had been purloined by the Ministry and had become absolutely convinced of its infallibility.

In the aftermath of the final battle, Malfoy Manor had been overrun with all sorts of Ministry officials from Aurors to Unspeakables who came to confiscate any Dark artifacts left about the place. Some were souvenirs of the Dark Lord’s stay, and Draco and Narcissa had been more than happy to see them go. Most of it however, had been in the family for generations, and the experience of outsiders riffling through it all as though it were rubbish had been humiliating for him and devastating for his mother.

The Ministry idiots, in tromping through their home, mistakenly scooped up amongst the cursed and the heavily warded a music box which had been handed down from one Malfoy bride to the next for three hundred years. It was enchanted to play the tune most dear to each wife in possession of it, and Narcissa had a habit of sitting with it in the front parlor a few times a week, a peaceful smile on her face as it played.

One look at his mother’s face when she’d discovered it missing and Draco’s quest to reclaim the heirloom from the Ministry had been _imperative_. He’d explained the situation to Weasley, who had given him detailed instructions on how to use the device for his purposes.

Once he’d given it his directive, the WDS had advised him on the perfect time of day to make his visit to the Ministry; directed him to Alastor Gumboil, the person most able to help him recover it; and had fed him the lines to properly flatter and cajole the man by discussing Gumboil’s hobby of cultivating The Abyssinian Shrivelfig before subtly changing the conversation to the granting of favors. By the time he’d left, the man was obsequiously proclaiming that he owed one to Draco.

Draco had admittedly found himself at that point debating the pros and cons of using the WDS for world domination. He was only human after all, and a Malfoy to boot. One could only imagine what his father (or his father’s father, or his father’s father’s father before _that_ , the sick bastard) could have wrought in the wizarding world with such a nefarious tool. His mind did fairly reel at the prospect.

But then Draco had remembered that he’d stopped wanting to emulate Lucius Malfoy (or _his_ father before him) right around the time he’d seen the man groveling on his knees before the Dark Lord. And that after years of promising Draco that to wear the Mark was to stand at his right hand? Delusional sod, that Lucius.

Involving himself in Ministry politics and bureaucracy would be essential, but power-mongering was not for Draco. He’d decided instead that the money he’d make selling the WDS would be sufficient, and in the meantime, he could utilize its powers beautifully in his search for a flat in London.

A result of his time in exile had been his realization that living on his own (read: without his mother) was far more comfortable, and he’d since been champing at the bit to move out. Unfortunately, he’d found that finding a flat in London was about as easy as finding one’s way _around_ London and had been looking for months by the time this latest model of the WDS had been ready to give some help.

But now, something was definitely wrong with the thing. Draco had been late for a few appointments here and there before, and that was nothing serious. Missing one entirely, however (by a few hours, and without being able to talk his way back into the woman’s good graces, not even by flattery of her unnervingly imperturbable hairdo), seemed a direct malfunction and definitely cause for concern. His enjoyment of spending time with Granger notwithstanding, he _needed_ his own flat. So he went back to the source.

“It’s not working,” Draco said with a huff.

The shop in Diagon Alley was positively bursting with the frenzy of holiday shoppers, so Weasley barely spared him a glance before continuing with a customer. A full ten minutes went by before he would deign to give Draco his attention, and he had the nerve to seem put out by it.

“What is it you’re trying to _do_ with it, exactly?”

“I’m giving it instructions and it’s steering me wrong,” Draco said tightly.

“I mean _exactly_ ,” Weasley said with a sigh. “Tell me the exact phrase or phrases you’re using when things don’t work out.”

Draco’s brow furrowed. “It seems to stop working specifically when I’m looking for a flat that’s been advertised to let, or on the way to an appointment with an estate agent or landlord. I’ve been using the ‘affirmative speech’ you suggested, saying things like: ‘help me find my home,’ or ‘take me to where I will feel at home.’“

Weasley’s interest was apparently piqued by that, as he took out a well-worn flip pad and was transcribing every word. “And what’s happening, exactly? Where is the WDS taking you? Is it giving you faulty directions?”

“No, no. It takes me in the right direction, but then...” Draco shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling as though there could be a way of looking at this that would put him at fault. He admitted, “It sometimes distracts me.”

“Distracts you?” Weasley stopped writing and leveled a shrewd look at Draco. “Does it change your mind about where you want to go, or does it just delay your getting there?”

“Change my mind?” Draco said, alarmed. “It couldn’t actually mess with my mind that way, could it?” He was not reassured by Weasley’s careless shrug, as though that wasn’t a disturbing notion. “Well, I guess it just delays it. It makes me think— It will point out something else that I end up wanting instead.”

“Like what?” Weasley prompted, gesturing impatiently. “Where does it take you?”

“To eat, or to get coffee or a paper or... something. Some kind of little errand.”

“Yes, but _where_ does it take you?” he said, agitated. “If you’re using the same question or something similar each time, there should be something consistent that connects where you end up. Is there something in common with each occasion?”

“I guess you could say that I—” Draco cleared his throat, his cheeks inexplicably heating. “When this has happened, I’ve run into Granger.”

Something nearly imperceptible flickered in Weasley’s eyes. He took a deep breath, looked down at his notes and then calmly up at Draco. “Hermione?”

Getting such a serious reaction from Weasley set him decidedly on edge. He had a feeling he was missing a vital part of this conversation, though that was nothing new with this bloke.

Draco forced a shrug and kept his tone nonchalant. “Yeah, I just keep seeing her around. She’s just always where I end up, and then I get... sidetracked.” He watched as the git scribbled furiously on his pad, almost certain he wasn’t going to like where this was headed.

Weasley pulled his stool up to the counter and sat, pen and paper at the ready. “Okay. Tell me again exactly what you say to it. _Exactly_.”


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione was making excellent time.

 _Wait just a tick here, luv, that car’s going too fast. Right. After you cross, you’re clear heading toward the Tube, but there’s some kind of street-dweller at the corner, so if you want to avoid emptying your pockets of change... ah, predictable luv. You’re gonna go broke if you don’t keep some of it for yourself, and you won’t have anything for that shiny, new bookstore at the corner of Charing Cross Road..._

The device had a low profile and was really rather comfortable. It fit in the ear like a Muggle Bluetooth headset, and with her hair down it was completely hidden from view.

George had come to her strangely insistent that she try it out for him, though he already apparently had a few other prototypes in circulation for testing. He was so adamant, it had set alarms ringing in her head, recalling the Puking Pastilles disaster of fifth year. It was Angelina who had convinced her, though she was vague as to why it was that George couldn’t properly do the testing himself.

Truth be told, Hermione was drawn to take part, positively fascinated by the mere idea of it. What was so compelling was that the inspiration behind the device had been Malfoy’s; its basic purpose was to direct and keep one on a path, to help one avoid obstacles and missteps. _That_ was rather telling about his attitude toward his own life. Though it had been no surprise to Hermione that Malfoy had returned from his time in the Muggle world changed, it was by how much that now intrigued her.

If she were to be completely honest with herself, she would have to admit that there was a great deal about Malfoy that interested her. She wasn’t particularly surprised to have found what a good conversationalist he was, having always found him (though most of the time grudgingly) to be a true challenge in their years at Hogwarts. She'd always known that, underneath the bluster and bigotry, he was her intellectual equal. They’d all grown and changed, but his experiences having to contend with a world completely foreign to him had brought about a growth in Malfoy even more than most of their peers.

After all, a leopard capable of changing his spots is infinitely more attractive than one who doesn’t even realize he has them.

With all of these stimulating run-ins, Hermione had begun to think he was following her, and she was quite frankly flattered by the notion. Because truly, his Death Eater and All-Around-Git history aside, he really was witty, charming (even his grumpiness could be endearing), and terribly good-looking. That is, if you like the tall, blond, hard-bodied type.

But since Hermione had a keen mind that did what she told it to do, she was rather good at avoiding examining anything about Malfoy’s appeal and what it did to her.

So, her interest in testing the WDS was more than just for the sake of science, but the timing was also perfect to snare her: Christmas shopping with the gadget was a very tempting proposition. Hermione’s gift list was always an intimidating one, having a surrogate family to contend with as well as her not-inconsiderable real one. Shopping for the Weasleys alone could take up a day or two of her time under any normal circumstances, but this year, it was a little more complicated than usual.

The long, drawn-out saga that was The Inevitable Break-Up of Ron and Hermione had finally concluded just before Valentine’s Day that year. It had been coming on for awhile, as they’d been not much more than friends (with very few benefits, she was sorry to report) for nearly a year before that. It had ultimately been mutual and peaceful, though sad, and their friendship had taken a bit of a beating in the months following.

They were working on it very sincerely and steadily, but this would be the first holiday season since, and they wanted it to serve as proof of their ability to move on romantically while still in each other’s platonic lives. There remained lingering hopes on the part of Molly, however (and, to a certain extent, Bill and Arthur), that they would reconcile and marry. Those wishes were complicated by the fact that Ron was currently very happily dating Susan Bones, who would be spending the hols with the family.

So, the usual, overwhelming shopping list was additionally fraught with the potential for disaster.

Her present to Ron would have to convey friendliness but not yearning; sincere affection without covetousness; and distance while not seeming cold. In order not to be threatening to Susan, her gifts to Molly and Arthur should avoid being too grand or familial. The presents to the Weasley siblings should (within reason, as Ginny was still one of her best friends) not be too indicative of insurmountable history and inside jokes.

Hermione had been exhausted just thinking about it.

But the WDS had worked rather well for her and in record time. She was thrilled, relieved, and so convinced she’d successfully navigated her selections down to the last one that she put the device to work on a true, logistical challenge: Christmas shopping for her family in Muggle London.

It was after this excursion that she’d been struck with an undeniable truth: Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes (in partnership with Malfoy Enterprises) had a gold mine on their hands should they choose to market and sell the thing.

She’d cruised Oxford and Bond street with remarkable ease, being jostled not one bit by the teeming masses. In Selfridges, she’d got to the last maroon silk scarf that was just perfect for her Auntie Katherine mere seconds before two other women went to grab it. Every queue she chose was the fastest moving, and each time a new one opened, she was positioned to take advantage. When tempted to purchase the carry-on bag for her mother at Marks and Spencer, the device guided her to Fortnum and Mason off the beaten path for a better price. And, though she usually disdained Harrods as over-hyped and extravagant, she was led to quite a few steals there.

Having saved so much time and money, she was left with a couple of days and more than a few pounds to spend on herself. She was on holiday for another two days before Christmas Eve put a lock on her schedule, and that meant one thing to Hermione: time to lose herself in a book or two (or three – preferably a series). Over her morning tea, she’d carefully thought of what she wanted to find.

Certainly, the books in question would have to be Muggle. She’d found over the years that wizarding literature just didn’t hold a candle to that of her birth; living in a world where anything you can imagine is reality made for art decidedly lacking in creativity. She wanted an adventure, but one that would engage her emotions and satisfy her need for romance. It would have to be engrossing and stimulating.

Feeling an affinity for the WDS from her travels through Christmas mayhem, she felt rather confident that she could fashion the perfect command that would get her what she wanted to occupy her time. After three or four drafts, she’d found it.

“Lead me to what will entice me, challenge me, and hold my interest.”

**~*:*~**

She’d spent a rather pleasant day browsing about London, but she’d found nothing to really tempt her. Rather suddenly though, the WDS came to life to direct her toward Charing Cross Road, where there was apparently a new bookstore she’d just have to see.

 _You’re going to want to cross here, dear – your mum’s friend Susan is about to come out of that fabric store, and if you get stuck looking at photos of the grandchild, you’ll never make it out before nightfall. Watch where you’re stepping there’s— Actually, what the bloody hell **is** that? No offence, luv, but Muggle London is just plain filthy. On the other hand, their shop windows are fantastically amusing, so slow it down – you’re not in any rush. Mmmm... one thing I can say for those Muggles is that they really do make their displays anatomically correct now, don’t they? Oi! Is that really a display of condoms at the chemist?_

Hermione did stop to look into said window, that of a Boots, trying to regain control of herself, lest she attract attention on the street by laughing out loud. A definite draw-back of the device was the need to maintain one’s composure with the running commentary of a Weasley Twin in one’s ear. The convenience of the WDS could be diminished a bit if it meant people around you thought you were insane, and talking to the device to quiet it down would certainly not help with that.

Skimming over the display (and yes, it _was_ condoms, but there was a national campaign going currently and safe sex was nothing to snicker about, she’d have you know) she looked past it into the store. There, beyond the tinsel and sparkle of Christmas decorations, she saw white-blond colored movement, and was confronted with the fairly surprising sight of Draco Malfoy.

She’d never before seen him in Muggle London. Beyond that, it was astounding that he was reading from a Muggle magazine in front of the shop’s rack. And as plebian as _that_ might be, the most astonishing part of all was that he was standing in Muggle London, in a Boots, reading a magazine, all while stuffing an _entire Twinkie_ into his mouth whole.

Hermione froze trying to process this information, and Malfoy’s gaze flicked casually to see her through the window.

Though she’d suspected from time to time that their run-ins were somehow purposeful on his part (they were just too coincidental), she was quite sure he’d not been planning on seeing her this time, given the sheer horror of his expression upon spotting her. He likewise froze, standing there wide-eyed with his mouth full to bursting with yellow, cream-filled cake.

The surreal moment was broken as Malfoy started to choke.

“Malfoy, don’t—”

Hermione rushed through the door and bolted toward him, grabbing his wrist before he could draw his wand. He should know the consequences of performing magic in front of Muggles as well as anybody, but she knew in cases of emergency (and extreme stress), those sorts of things could be easily forgotten.

“Just calm down and try to swallow. Just breathe, Malfoy; chew... chew... swallow... that’s right,” she said, rubbing his back in what she hoped were soothing circles as his cheeks started to pink rather worryingly. Exaggeratedly breathing in and out, trying to demonstrate calm, even respiration, she realized the color of his cheeks was more from mortification than lack of oxygen. Doing her best to defuse the situation, she joked, “Of course, even if you don’t, the Twinkie is sure to dissolve on its own in no time, since there’s not really anything legitimately _food_ -like in it.”

Predictably, Malfoy didn’t enjoy her humor. He tried to breathe, chew, and swallow at the same time, all while shooting her looks of hard exasperation.

Malfoy never allowed himself to be caught in any way other than in complete control of his faculties and would react in such situations rather like a cat doused with water. Hermione averted her eyes politely when he began to tear up, and her gaze fell on the magazine he’d been reading, still in his hand. As Malfoy finally began pulling himself together, she pulled it from where his fingers still marked his place, and her eyes widened in surprise upon seeing the cover.

“Cosmo?”

Malfoy was almost fully back to normal now, with only a slight rouge to his cheeks. Clearing his throat, he looked to her, confused. Shaking his head, he repeated, “Cosmo?”

Hermione held up the magazine. “’Cosmopolitan.’ You’re reading _Cosmopolitan_ magazine?”

“Yes,” he answered carefully, brow furrowed. “Why?”

Well, that wasn’t the reaction she’d expected. “But... it’s a women’s magazine,” she said, equally carefully.

“Yeah, I know. It’s dead useful.”

“Er... you read this regularly?” Hermione pressed, not quite sure they were in the same conversation.

“Sure. It’s all about women.” He shrugged, then his eyes widened slightly as it started to dawn on him. “Hang on, do Muggle men not read these?” When she just shook her head, mystified, he continued, unembarrassed. “Well, that’s a bit dim of them. It tells all about you lot. I found it really helpful—” Malfoy cut himself off, and it was _this_ finally that left him abashed.

In the time she and Malfoy had spent together in the past few months, they’d spoken about a wide range of topics, and Hermione had gleaned from incidents he’d mentioned just how much partying he’d done during his years ’in exile.’ She’d become less and less comfortable with knowing about the women he’d been involved with, and as time wore on, the thought of it brought a worrisome burn to her belly.

But Malfoy had seemed to grow equally uncomfortable with the subject, and wasn’t talking to her as openly of late as he had before. She was glad of that, as she had more than enough male friends who treated her like ‘one of the blokes’ to last a lifetime. Nothing could make a woman feel more sexless than a play-by-play of a friend’s adventures with his ‘bird’ followed by a ‘you’re so easy to talk to’ and a slap on the back.

So, Hermione allowed Malfoy to cut himself off now, hoping he’d change the subject and fast, when she suddenly became aware that her hand was still rubbing his back. Stopping abruptly, she stepped back, cheeks heating, and the goofy half-laugh that burst from her just couldn’t be helped.

She looked down, brushing her hair back behind her ear. “So... do you come here often, or just when your blood sugar is low?”

Silence.

Fine, so it wasn’t all _that_ clever, but he could respond – it wasn’t necessary to just leave her hanging. She was just trying to break up the tension, so a little gratitude would be nice. Since he was the one with the embarrassing choking episode, he should be jumping for whatever bone she threw at him and not just standing there quietly, making her more uncomfortable.

Starting to feel annoyed, she looked up, only to see Malfoy stiffly staring at her ear, eyes wide, the pink of his cheeks paled to white. It took her a moment to understand what he was looking at.

“Oh!” Hermione’s hand flew to the device, pulling it from her ear. “Yeah. George asked me to help with the testing. It’s a really fascinating idea, Malfoy, I have to commend you. It’s incredibly effect—”

“What did you ask for?” His voice was low and broke halfway through.

“What— _Ask_ for?”

Malfoy cleared his throat and nodded. “From the device. Are you trying—” He shook his head and looked her in the eye, asking directly, “Where are you trying to go?”

“Oh, I...” All of a sudden, Hermione felt silly having to answer that. It was one thing to have a conversation with an inanimate object and quite another to have to admit it to a third party (regardless of the fact that the party in question had invented the blasted thing). “I just... I was looking for a good book. I’m off for a few days, you see, so I need a distraction. I asked it to, er... guide me.”

Malfoy just nodded at her, chewing the inside of his lip, and suddenly came to an abrupt decision. “Right then. I’ll see you,” he said, and swept past her and out of the shop.

He left his _Cosmo_ and the other Twinkie abandoned in his wake.

**~*:*~**

There was a mystery at hand, and Hermione Granger was on the case.

Trying to understand Malfoy’s reaction by talking to George though, had been no help whatsoever. He’d answered every question with an infuriatingly obtuse one of his own; like Malfoy, he’d wanted to know what she had ‘asked for.’ Hermione hadn’t really thought she was asking for much of anything but guidance, and wasn’t that the bloody point?

He’d just smiled thinly and said pointedly that the device _’takes you where you want to go,’_ as though that was the most elucidating bit of information he could impart, and that was the end of that.

But there were others who’d been suckered into testing the WDS, and Hermione took it to them.

Lee Jordan was working his dream job as sports writer for the _Daily Prophet_. He had complete editorial control over content, could keep any hours he liked, and got into any and all Quidditch games around the world for free. It would have been a great gig for many a witch or wizard, but for Lee and his near obsessive love of the game, it was paradise. He’d always been a cheery and charming bloke, one Hermione had always liked and gotten on with, so it was no problem getting him to talk about his experience with product testing.

“As far as I know, I had one of the earlier, more buggy prototypes, but... it was still the best few weeks of my life.”

He went on to say that the WDS had led him to the pubs where players were drinking, relaxed, and ripe for (what they presumed but never confirmed to be off-the-record) storytelling. When there was a choice between two or three games at the same time, the device had led him to choose the one that was the most exciting, controversial, or in any way the best subject for that day’s column. And, he admitted quite unashamedly, it had been dead useful in chatting up groupies and barmaids.

When she asked if it had caused him ever to change course, to go in a direction other than where he was headed, he said it hadn’t; he’d always been able to count on it getting him where he wanted to go. As she was leaving his office, he called out to her.

“I know George wants to keep using new subjects for testing, to get a wider range of results, but if there’s ever a chance for me to use the thing again, I’ll jump at it.”

Molly was a little trickier to talk to. It was _the_ Christmas Eve dinner, after all, and though Hermione’s presents went over rather well (and Susan seemed to be making a good impression on the family as a whole), there was still a bit of a longing from the woman who had so long wanted to be her mother-in-law. Hermione hated to have disappointed her. Waiting until everyone was relaxed and settled in the parlor, she broached the subject over the kitchen clean-up.

“Oh, it helped me pick out some recipes and such,” Molly said airily, suddenly very intent on wiping down the same corner of the counter repeatedly and without magic. “It was very useful when we were watching Victoire for a few days – she’s a very fussy eater, and I would have never thought to try the fig compote. It was the only thing she’d take for the whole visit.”

Hermione interrupted as Molly began to talk about the carnival they’d taken their granddaughter to that weekend to ask, “Did you try it outside your home? Shopping in Diagon Alley, for instance?”

“Oh yes, it was fine,” she continued in the same forced tone. “I found a very nice pork roast at the butcher that I hadn’t been planning on buying, so that was rather nice.”

Hermione was a little confused by Molly’s reluctance to talk about the WDS. Usually, it was difficult to get _out_ of a conversation regarding something invented by, participated in, advocated for, or involving any one of the woman’s children.

“Well, did you have any unusual experiences with it? Say, did it lead you astray at any point, or take you somewhere you hadn’t asked to go?”

Here, Molly abruptly stopped her busy work and looked off, clearly transported for a long moment. When she spoke, it was as though from far away. “There were some _things_ that needed to be cleaned out,” she said, taking a deep breath and pushing the rest out in a rush. “It was time to pack some things up. So much better gone to the needy, things which could be of use to others, and it... led me to do it.”

Molly turned then to face her, and Hermione was struck by the grief in the woman’s eyes; it made the lively woman look a decade older. Glancing across the room to the table at which they’d all sat for dinner a few hours before, Hermione suddenly realized what had been slightly ‘off’ but had gone largely unnoticed: a place had not been set for Fred this year as usual. Molly glanced to the spot and looked back to Hermione, tears in those eyes that always conveyed strength and resolve. The weathered face shed the added years with the gathering of a tremulous smile.

“It gave me the support I needed to say goodbye,” Molly said softly. “It was time.” Without her having to ask, she answered Hermione’s final question, saying, “I won’t use it or any of the later versions again. I won’t need to.”

Hermione felt none the wiser for this information, rich though it was. She knew her own experience with the WDS and could see where Lee’s and Molly’s had been specific to their own circumstances, but it didn’t fully gel for her until the annual Boxing Day sloth-fest at the Weasley-Potters. It had become tradition to spend that day at Ginny’s and Harry’s, wading through leftovers while listening to Quidditch on the wireless, with the only rule being that nothing productive or useful be done. It was Hermione’s favorite day of the year.

“It helped me find my keys once,” Harry said, keeping his voice low.

“That’s it?” Hermione said, after waiting for him to elaborate, surprised Harry hadn’t found any adventure with the WDS. “You didn’t take it out for a spin about town or anything?”

“Yeah, sure. It did keep me on schedule pretty well, and it helped me to avoid a few obstacles I was happy not to have to deal with, but...” He paused, shifting on the sofa and lowering his voice to nearly a whisper. “Really, what’s the big deal with all that? Everyone’s in too much of a hurry.”

Sprawled as he was on the sofa, baby James asleep and snuggled tightly into his neck, Harry looked (and sounded) the very picture of contentment.

Hermione was struck then and there with what the WDS truly seemed to do; it certainly performed a basic service for help and direction, but more than that, it gave each witch or wizard what they truly _needed_. Miraculously, after all the years of hardship and struggle, there was nothing Harry Potter needed that wasn’t within his easy reach. The WDS had nothing to provide him that he did not have.

Hermione’s questions about the device – including just what (and who) had caused them – came spilling out of her as she confided in her best friend. Harry was rather amazed hearing what the WDS could accomplish, but being at all times an Auror, that wonder gave way to concern.

“To be honest, I’m not sure that sort of thing should be made available to the masses. Even if there could be some moral consciousness behind it,” he said, pausing to choose his next words carefully, “it doesn’t sound like a power anyone needs to have.”

After all of her ‘research,’ Hermione unfortunately had nothing to distract her from the questions swirling around in her head. Malfoy was nowhere to be found, though she sought him in each and every place she’d seen him in the last few months. In the end, she had no choice but to face herself.

The WDS must have found Hermione’s life lacking something, determining there to be something she wanted which she didn’t have. Otherwise, her search for a book should have yielded simply that and nothing more. In the long, unstructured days of her post-Christmas holiday (and without the aforementioned book to curl up with), she had to admit the device was most certainly right.

Hermione went over, again and again, what she’d asked of the device. She couldn’t deny that her encountering Malfoy had to be meaningful to the point of startling, any more than she could pretend not to have enjoyed each and every time their paths had crossed over the past months.

 _Lead me to what will entice me, challenge me, and hold my interest_.

Hermione had always been challenged by Malfoy. Even when she’d despised him, she’d been interested in the way his mind worked. As for being enticed... well, her thoughts and the paths they took throughout the days (and nights) were undeniable. Did she long for him to fill her free time? Was there something Draco also was seeking? Was he having luck finding it? Why had he been disturbed to find that she was seeking something with the WDS, too?

The thing about the scientific method is that once one has struck upon one’s hypothesis, it must be tested with experimentation. The morning of the last day of the year – that last hurrah of the holiday season – seemed like a fine time to take a leap into the unknown.

So, Hermione had her tea and toast, got herself showered and dressed, and placed the device in her ear. Standing before the door to her flat, purse and keys in hand, she spoke in a loud, clear voice.

“Help me find what I’m missing.”


	3. Chapter 3

Draco had some simple, quick errands to run before the shops closed for the night.

 _...call Ottoman’s Ends and Things and tell them to deliver at noon; they always book so they’re running early, so that way you’ll be able to sleep ‘til at least ten. You need groceries, right? Fine. You can pop over to the Sainsbury’s near Charing Cross Road, and from there you can swing back to the Magical Menagerie for Owl treats. Your Flitterbloom is starting to wilt, so I’d add Hilda’s Herb Haven to the list and pick up some plant food. And hey, since you’re such a wild man, while you’re there you could stop next door at Beaufort’s Liquor Barn for a bottle of bubbly for your bird— Oh, but then, you don’t **have** one of those, and alcohol might induce something like **fun** or holiday spirit into your life, and we can’t have that. Never you mind, mate, your ‘plans’ for the evening are oodles better._

The WDS had grown rather terse of late. It seemed that it wasn’t too keen on being asked simple, direct questions and nothing else; it rather enjoyed giving advice and commentary, and was downright affronted by the notion that its primary function could be something so tedious as giving directions.

But in the past few weeks, straightforward queries were all Draco’s prototype had been given. In response, directions had been supplied miraculously leading toward the perfect flat, and he was now happily calling it home. He’d kept his head down and his directives clear and had met no detours in his travels.

And no Hermione.

Draco had been ignoring that flutter in his belly that had belonged to her (and her alone) for a while, just as he’d been avoiding examining his feelings about these chance meetings all along. If pressed, he would have said he enjoyed them. Were Veritaserum to have been applied, however, he would have surely spilled a litany of hearts and flowers the likes of which even a lesser man like the Weasel would have found embarrassing.

To be fair, it had taken him some time to figure out. He was out of practice, after all; he’d not really had a sincere friend of any sort for... well, ever, and finding someone who challenged him as Granger did was unsettling, to say the least. Neither Crabbe nor Goyle had ever been up to the task, and Pansy was (in retrospect) infuriatingly simpering in her adoration (which only went so far, it turned out: about as far as his conviction, parole, exile, and general disgrace, and he hadn’t heard from her in years).

So at first, he’d regarded Granger as a novelty. She was undeniably intelligent and feisty, but most of all she’d just been _there_ – delightfully, randomly in his path. A reminder of what it had felt like to live in the Muggle world, with every day an adventure, she made the blood buzz in his veins like one of those extreme sports his fellow couriers got up to on their days off.

Soon though, he was noticing things like the grace of her hand as she stirred her tea. The way she pursed her lips just so when she was thinking was worryingly distracting. On one occasion, the sun lit her hair in such a way that it exploded in dozens of different shades and hues (such that he would never be able to label it as anything as banal as ‘brown’ ever again), and he’d lost his train of thought and gaped like an imbecile. When he’d recovered his senses, it was only to come to the conclusion that he was well and truly buggered.

It was thus only appropriate and predictable that the Weasley git would bear witness and capitalize on his folly.

 _Help me find my home... take me to where I will feel at home_.

It wasn’t possible for Draco to be any more pathetic. One look at the pity in that ginger prat’s eyes and he’d finally understood his heart had been asking the device to lead the way to Hermione all along. He hadn’t stuck around to be told that there wasn’t a chance in hell, but had done the only sensible thing; he’d changed his directives to the WDS to ask for a flat and nothing more. Sure enough, she was easy to miss from then on.

But seeing her in Boots... Draco had hoped maybe something other than his own yearnings had brought them together. When he’d seen she was using the device herself, there had been one glorious moment where he’d thought that, maybe, she’d been led to him by desires of her own.

And yet, it was not to be. It was a chance meeting borne from her voracious appetite for books (he’d never been so annoyed by her freakish habits), and she couldn’t possibly be interested. Draco had learned well from all the magazines – bloody useful they were – how a woman should act when she wants to attract a man or convey her interest. Hermione was doing none of it.

He could cut his losses though, and make the best of it. His new flat was ideal; a beautifully maintained older building, it was at the very edge of Diagon Alley in a neighborhood newly renovated after damage sustained in the war. He was slowly unpacking and settling in, he had it nearly half furnished, and he’d decided to spend a nice, quiet evening at home.

It mattered not at all that the evening spreading out before him was New Year’s Eve.

Bloody useless holiday. Its very purpose seemed to be to make any single person feel more _lonely_ than alone. He could have done the usual and attended his mum’s yearly soirée, but that would have defeated the purpose of moving out. This was about independence, and if ‘independent’ translated to ‘solitary’ for a time, it couldn’t be helped. So the plan for the night was to gorge on the sweetest of sweets while listening to the wireless until the new year snuck right on by.

Draco had only just gotten the device in his ear to ask what shops were open late this evening when it came to life barking a list of commands, and he suddenly couldn’t be buggered with the damn thing’s feelings any longer. He needed some sugar and some comfort and he needed it now, and that meant going out into the night without the WDS for the first time in months. A thrill of danger slid down his spine as he returned the gadget to its box and walked confidently out the door.

He cared not a whit for the lack of dry goods or perishables in his kitchen nor the state of his Flitterbloom. His mood didn’t need the application of liquor of any sort, and the only little lady he’d be spending this evening with was one by the name of _Marie Claire_ , and she’d be teaching him all about the Top Ten Female Erogenous Zones.

After all, tomorrow was another year.

**~*:*~**

Hermione had just about had it with these errands.

 _...because, as you know, chocolate is an aphrodisiac, but I believe it was Flamel who postulated that the properties of the substance were increased tenfold by melting. And with the addition of vanilla. And cinnamon. Cinnamon, as a matter of fact, is the scent men most associate with feelings of comfort. Oi! Are you listening to me? It’s there just over your left should— Excellent choice. I would have gone for the cinnamon sticks as well; they’ll be brilliant used in the hot chocolate for both flavor and garnish. Now, how about you pick up some eggs, luv? You never know when you’re going to be making a breakfast omelet for two, right? And speaking of which... coming up on your right is something you really should consider having on hand. That national campaign really got me to thinking. If you want to rely on your little pack of ‘pills,’ that’s all well and good, but I really think you should consider—_

“Stop!”

The shop was empty enough to face the embarrassment – she just couldn’t take another merry moment. The commentary hadn’t ceased from the minute she’d stepped on the pavement outside her flat, through Diagon Alley, and all the way out to nearby Muggle London.

She’d merely rolled her eyes when the WDS led her to the lingerie shop near Knockturn Alley, the innuendo thick in her ear. When it had tried to entice her into buying out the entire selection of single-malt Firewhiskys at Beaufort’s Liquor Barn to ‘put a little fire in her furnace,’ she’d just calmly left the shop. But the detour into Flourish and Blotts had seemed completely innocuous and promising until she’d found herself in one of the back aisles, being nudged gently toward The Kama Sutra.

At every stop and in all her travels in between, she’d kept her eye out for that singular, elusive blond she’d thought for sure would be her destination. When the device had finally pressed her to go to the Muggle supermarket for reinforcements against the long night ahead, she had been ready to throw in the towel. Sure, she’d passed on perfectly good invitations to a number of New Year’s Eve parties, but it was just a night (not really at all unlike any other night), and she could spend it in the comfort and solitude of her own flat if she damn well chose.

There had been one last, brief thrill though, as the WDS pushed her toward the cookies and cakes aisle in Sainsbury’s; her heart had skipped a beat at the sight of the Twinkies, sure that Draco was nearby, but there’d been no one but some giggling teens. Those same teens had scurried away from Hermione in fear when she’d finally had enough of the loquacious earpiece at the condom display to scream.

She paid for her basket full of goodies (and yes, she’d followed the advice about stocking up on eggs _and such_ , because it was indeed good to be prepared) and decided finally to call it a night. Dejected, downcast and Draco-less, she walked slowly back to her flat, arriving back at her building no better for the walk. Pushing the button to call the lift, she stood slouched in the lobby, lost in thought.

Perhaps she’d gotten it all wrong.

Though it was undeniably statistically improbable, there was nothing truly earth-shaking about her having encountered Draco in Muggle London on that particular day while she was in the midst of that certain errand. It was no more coincidental than the myriad other times she’d run into him about town, and that didn’t have any intriguing undertones; after all, he’d been the one to discover her those times, purely by chance and in simply going about his day, so it couldn’t be that—

Her train of thought was interrupted by the ding of the lift and the whirr of the doors opening to reveal none other than the subject of her thoughts himself. There Draco Malfoy stood, under the harsh lighting and the tacky wallpaper, staring back at her with his mouth agape, surely mirroring her own look of astonishment.

“What are you doing here?” Draco and Hermione said in perfect sync.

“I live here.” They did it again – just like it happened in movies.

Red-faced, looking about at the lobby and the lift, they said, “Well, not _here_ , but—“ Each stopped short, flustered, amazed, and embarrassed.

Hermione recovered enough of herself to cut through the shock to the salient point in all of this. “Hang on, you live _here_ in this building? This is my building. Since when do you live here, in _my_ building?”

“I’ve just moved in,” Draco said, his tone unsurprisingly defensive.

“How on earth did you get in? Flats never become available in this building. People have to die for a space to open here.” Hermione blushed at that; she wasn’t particularly proud of the fact that she’d gotten her place as a result of her workmate’s grandmother’s fatal dragon pox. She was too distracted at first by her own embarrassment though, to notice his discomfort.

“I... well, I tried a few very fine estate agents at first, but they had no luck.” Clearing his throat, he continued, “I gather you’re familiar with the ‘Wizarding Directive System,’ so you’re aware of how it—?” He made a gesture with his hand that was surely supposed to elucidate matters, but he was no longer making eye contact to see her nod along. “Well, to make a long story short, I used the device to be... led to this, er, place. Here.”

It was then Hermione noticed the full flush of his cheeks, rather startling against his fair skin. She didn’t have time to really appreciate it, however, because her brain processed what he’d just said and shifted into high gear.

“What did you ask for?” She said, her voice hushed.

“I—” He cut himself off with a sigh, finally wrenching his gaze up to hers. Whatever war was going on within him, it burned through that look into her, and she held her breath until he spoke again, his tone resigned. “I asked for a flat in a building that... had everything I want.”

Another theory flickered to life in her mind. “What floor do you live on?” she blurted.

His eyes narrowed for only a moment, calculating her reasoning. “Seventh.”

“What number?”

“Nine,” he said cautiously, trying to read her reaction.

“Mine’s eleven,” she said breathlessly. “We share pipes.”

Brow furrowed, he shook his head, disbelieving. “I’ve been here a week – where have you been?”

“Out.” She let out a long breath in relief. “Looking for you.”

All the days of searching, all of the questioning and researching and hypothesizing and testing, and the WDS always led her back home. Maybe it was a coincidence, and maybe it didn’t signify anything, but it had simply placed Draco in her path. If she wasn’t part of what was enticing about the building and if she wasn’t one of the things he wanted, it didn’t matter.

Because Hermione finally realized that the undeniable conclusion of this whole experiment was that she wanted _him_. She shouldn’t have needed any bloody gadget or doohickey to tell her that.

 _Just do it, luv. I mean, he’s not **my** type, but if you really go for that so-pale-it’s-see-through complexion, then I’m not one to judge. So go on – don’t leave a guy hanging like that. Just remember the cinnamon. And the vanilla. And what I said about the—_

Hermione stepped forward, and Draco’s eyes widened as she approached. Both of her hands were full, laden with shopping bags from her evening’s journey, so she had to trust him to follow her lead. She leaned in and raised on her toes, reaching, searching. He gasped softly as he caught on.

A hand, trembling slightly, cradled her face as his arm snaked cautiously around her waist. Her eyes slid shut only a moment before his lips touched hers, safely to her destination at last.

**~*:*~**

Draco was floating, existing in a space out of time.

She was quite simply the most delicious woman he’d ever tasted, and he couldn’t possibly let go or he’d spin helplessly out into the ether. He was not at all sure how he’d survived so bloody long without her soft, spirited kisses and the little noises she made at the back of her throat. He wasn’t going to risk ever relinquishing them.

But then the ding of the lift and the whirr of the doors closing on them pulled him back down to earth.

Instinctively, he pulled her inside as the doors shut. Hunching over, he fumbled with her hand to take one of the heavy bags, his hand still questing about her waist. Her fingers, newly freed, threaded into his hair, leaving a tingle over his scalp that shot down his spine. Spinning them, he backed her up against the wall.

Pushing closer to her, he got as near as humanly possible, wanting to breathe her air, to devour her.

She tried to pull back, making as though she wanted to speak, but he followed. A harsh yank at his hair made him relent, but only just.

“Where are we—” She glanced to the side at the buttons on the lift’s control panel.

He reached out blindly and pushed one, completely unconcerned as the lift sped them upward to Merlin-only-cared where, and dove immediately to recapture her lips.

Draco knew somewhere deep down that this was rather momentous, an event preceded by many an obstacle and precipitated by unlikelihood. There should probably be sincere reflection involved, and possibly a discussion about how they could and should proceed. The two of them were good at negotiating, talking through things, and reaching agreements, after all (or agreeing to disagree, but that was nearly the same thing).

But Draco’s brain wasn’t in just then. Sorry. Please call later.

The lift came to a stop with a jolt, and Hermione took over as the doors opened, pushing him so that he walked backward with her out of the lift. He had no idea which floor they’d reached, and he couldn’t be buggered to look.

They ambled awkwardly down the hall. Hermione periodically leaned off-balance until Draco relieved her of the bag she carried, holding both in his hand. He still had one arm to wrap around her with a hand to explore her curves (paying particular attention to erogenous zone number two). But she had both hands free, and they were immediately pulling at him, fisting in his hair, and unbuttoning his coat.

He walked forward as she pulled, backward as she pushed. Now they were cooking with gas, and made much quicker progress through the hallway. He only noticed they’d reached the door to the stairwell once they’d walked through it. Following her lead, they inched step-by-step up the stairs.

On the second half of the stairway past the landing, she lost her balance. As she fell to her bum on one of the steps, Draco took immediate advantage. Sinking to his knees, he covered her, taking his place between her thighs. Her legs wrapped about him and squeezed, and he released a plaintive moan he barely recognized as his own.

It must have brought Hermione out of whatever lovely reverie had possessed her to be comfortable on the concrete steps of a public stairwell. She wriggled and pushed, trying to squirm out of his rather insistent grasp. He thought he’d won a battle when she stilled, and he followed a trail from her pulse down her neck with satisfaction. He felt the vibration against his lips a second before hearing the husky sound.

“Draco.”

He’d never heard anything more sensual, more animal, more _womanly_ than the rasp of Hermione’s voice just then. His brain took a moment to register exactly what she’d said. She’d never spoken his first name before, and it did something to him that had him gripping the railing to steady himself. He likewise tried to anchor himself in her gaze, but he was lost.

Then, the advantage was all Hermione’s. She turned over and crawled up the rest of the steps. He watched helplessly after her (enjoying the view, but still...). By the time she’d reached the door with ‘Seventh Floor’ painted across it in chipping, gray paint, the fear of losing her had gotten him crawling up after her.

She burst through the door into the hallway with Draco hot on her heels. He wrapped his arm around her from behind, and that was just fine. As long as he could pepper kisses on her neck and bury his face in her hair, (and easily reach erogenous zone number eight) she could walk them to Scotland and back for all he cared.

But they weren’t going quite that far. Hermione led them to a door and turned around to face him. He pressed her immediately against it, himself against her, and his mouth to hers. It took her more than a few tries to get his attention this time. Yanking him back by the hair was proving effective, though.

“Wards,” she said with a wave at the wood behind her head.

He looked in that direction, but she had to repeat the word and gesture before the metal ‘9’ clued him in that they were leaning against the door to his flat. “Mine?” He leaned in to lick at that strip of skin behind her ear.

“Yours.”

He shook his head, now busy with erogenous zone number five. “No. Can’t. I don’t—” Draco forgot what he was saying somewhere around the word ‘can’t.’

Again with the yanking of the hair. “We’re _here_ ,” she said with a definite whine, the likes of which he’d never before heard from her.

His sigh was one of genuine frustration. “No furniture.”

“ _Furn_ iture? Why the bloody hell would we need furniture?”

At that moment, Draco had one erogenous zone, and it covered him from head to toe. He dropped the wards with a wave of his hand, turned the doorknob, and pushed through into his flat before his brain went on what he was sure would be an extended leave of absence.

After that, things happened fast. Lights, on; coats, scarves, hats, jumpers, shoes, off. Hands went up shirts and down trousers, things were unbuttoned, unclasped and unzipped.

Draco found himself leaned against the door, his head flung back, only dimly noting that Hermione had fallen to her knees before him. What he was acutely aware of was the bloody perfect sensation of the tips of her fingers rubbing _just_ there... and the way she held and squeezed... _exactly_ the right amount... and the tip of her tongue _riiiiiiight_ —

His head snapped forward to look down at Hermione in amazement. These were things that he always had to show a girl over time with patient instruction, so how could she have possibly gotten it all at once? She stopped and looked up at him, an enchantingly wicked grin on her lips. He groaned and pushed both hands into her hair, brushing it back from her face.

His left hand brushed against something attached to her ear, something small and made of plastic. Angling her head to get a better look, he saw the Wizarding Directive System.

It was in use. That grin of Hermione’s turned to a smirk.

“Convenient, hmm?” she said.

The horror of it all doused him at once. “Creepy,” he replied with a grimace. Draco was starting to think the WDS wasn’t such a good idea for the masses after all, much less as a constant companion whispering intimacies in Hermione’s ear (and he had enough money that his grandchildren’s great-grandchildren would be just fine without the potential income).

She got to her feet and shrugged, undisturbed. Pulling it from her ear, she raised a brow and said, “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I don’t want George bleeding Weasley in your ear while your mouth is— And _I’m_ —” He faltered at that, suddenly unsure, and his cheeks heated to match. “I _am_ going to be... right?”

Hermione nodded, chuckling. She placed the device in Draco’s hand and leaned in, kissing him lightly. He relaxed and ran his fingers lightly up and down her arms, contemplating which erogenous zone was next on the menu.

Her brows furrowed, and she appeared lost in thought for a moment before she asked, “Do you think it’s George in the WDS?”

“Yeah, of course. It sounds just like him.”

“Well, I’d never really thought about it, but now that I do... it sounds rather more like Fred to me.”

“They don’t— Didn’t sound alike?”

“No,” Hermione said, wistful. “You could tell the difference.”

At that moment, the clock struck midnight (well, it didn’t actually ‘strike,’ as Draco didn’t have any of those kinds of clocks in his house) and the sounds of London’s revelers, both wizard and Muggle, drifted in from outside. Starting the year off right with a kiss was suddenly of paramount importance. This conversation was not.

He plucked the WDS from Hermione’s hand and threw the blasted thing to Merlin-only-cared-where in his perfect, nearly half-furnished flat and pulled her in for that very brilliant snog.

Whoever’s voice it was, be it from this world or the next or somewhere in between, he thanked it for its time and wished it peace.

Draco had found his way, and he was home at last.

 

**~* the end *~**


End file.
